I anxiously tap my foot on the white linoleum floor, gazing upon Petyr’s comatose body lying within a medical chamber. The coffin-shaped contraption pings in sync with his steady heart rate. I glance at the time impatiently.

“Where’s that damn doctor…?” I ask myself. Petyr’s doctor enters the room, Doctor Maureen, a stout woman with a short bob. She goes about her business, assessing Petyr’s condition then documenting it into her medical tablet all the while completely ignoring me.

“No news is good news. No news is good news,” I recite in my head until the phrase loses its meaning. Eventually the prolonged silence shreds my last thread of patience in half. I obnoxiously clear my throat. She turns to address me, then forces a smile on her freckled face, revealing a wide gap in the middle of her upper row of teeth.

“Ay—den...?” she says questionably. I spring halfway up from the seat before the pain from my fractured rib immediately reminds me to take it easy.

“... Mr. Myers is showing great signs of recovery. His cells are not rejecting the mediform solution and he’s recovering much faster than anticipated—however…”

I hold my breath, expecting the worst. “Though he may be healing, the MRI scan I conducted just now reveals Mr. Myers suffered significant brain damage on his left frontal lobe. This could have drastic effects on his cognitive and motor functions.”

My heart sinks like a stone and I’m at a loss for words. The doctor fiddles with her medical tablet for a moment.

“For now I will keep him in a comatose state until the burns are completely healed. We’ll know more when he wakes. As for you, I recommend going home, resting up and refrain from moving too much.”

She pivots towards the door.

“Wait, wait!” I exclaim, carefully sitting up from the chair. The doctor stops in her tracks and purses her lips impatiently.

“You’re kicking me out after telling me all that? I’d rather stay here!”

She takes a deep breath. “Look, I know you care for your friend—”

“Father,” I say. “He’s my father.”

She raises an eyebrow skeptically.

“Yeah, I know, my squinted eyes and tan skin are a complete curveball,” I growl. “You’re not the first to notice.”

She deflects my blunt comment with a smarmy chuckle and grin.

“Look, you’ve already spent the better half of two days in this hospital. Watching over your father isn’t going to expedite his recovery,” she says, putting strong ununcuation on the word father.

“I know this is a tough time right now. I know he means the world to you, but you need to consider your own recovery. I’ve watched you hobble around this ward like an injured abandoned puppy for far too long. You need to go home, rest up, and maybe take a shower. You can always come back tomorrow during visiting hours if you are feeling up for it.”

I take a short whiff of the collar area and grimace at the odor of body grease and singed fabric. As much as I hate to admit it, the mean doctor is right. I could use a shower and a change of threads.

“Sorry if I am coming off as a total A-hole but please understand this is for your own good...”

She hands me her holo-pad.

“Here, jot down your number and I’ll be sure to keep you posted for any changes in his condition.”

Although my cybernetic hasn’t been reliable these last few days, I write down my contact anyway then hand it back to her. She ushers me out of the room then moves into the next to continue her rounds. My attention is drawn to a television mounted above the nurses’ station tuned to ANN. While Deborah cheerfully reports on the Red August festival underway, at the bottom sliding across the news ticker is a menial update of the FNBC bombing and Lupo. The ticker continues about the possibility of a copycat terrorist or even a government cover-up, but offers no credible source.

My cybernetic flickers erratically as a call rolls through. The display fails to show the caller ID but I have a feeling I already know who it is.

“Hey, babe,” I simply reply.

For a second there is only dead air before a staticky voice calls to me on the other end. I smack the side of my cybernetic a few times to clear the reception which surprisingly manages to work.

“Ayden, can you hear me?” asks Keith.

“I can now,” I reply. “What’s going on?”

“Where are you? You have an appointment with Doctor Polo right now!” Keith says with a hint of strain. “You need to get to EvGeni as soon as possible.”

“I’m still at Asclepius?” I reply perplexed. “I have an appointment with who now?”

“Doctor Polo!” he replies, trying his best not to raise his voice above a whisper. “Doctor Summers set you up with a therapy session today. I didn’t know about it until he knocked on my office door asking for you.”

“Can I reschedule? I haven’t been home since you discharged me and I sorta reek,” I reply.

Keith sighs loudly.

“No, you can’t. This is a prestigious therapist who came off world from Canteron just to see you. You’re only a block away from EvGeni, just come in for a bit. If you’re concerned about your smell then I can spray you with a bit of deodorant before you meet him.”

“Ugh, do I have to?” I whine.

Suddenly, a thunderous clap echoes throughout the city. I jump out of my own skin. I turn to the direction of the sound and see a colorful array of fireworks illuminating the purple sky above. I swallow my pride.

“Fine, I’m on my way…”

I arrive at EvGeni ten minutes later. Keith spots me upon entering the lobby doors. He rushes to me from the waiting area, a can of deodorant in hand.

“Oh my god—You haven’t changed out of those clothes since the explosion,” he says with a gasp. “Why didn’t you listen and go home to change?”

“I didn’t want to leave his side…”

He frowns sympathetically, dusts my collar then straightens my shirt the best he can.

“I’m sorry…” he says. He bits his lower lip, wanting to express his sympathy through a kiss but settles with a friendly pat on my shoulder. We take the elevator up to Keith’s office. Inside, an unfamiliar looking man who I assume to be Doctor Polo sat along the corner reading from his holo-pad. He’s older with dark brown hair and wearing probably the thickest and roundest pair of glasses I’ve ever seen.

“Ah, yes. Is this Mr. O’Hara?” he asks Keith with a relaxed tone.

Keith replies with a head nod. “Yeah, this is him. I’m sorry for the tardiness.”

“No need for apologies,” he insists, waving his hand. Doctor Polo rises from his seat and extends his hand out to introduce himself.

“Hello, my name is Doctor Markus Polo.”

“Markus Polo?” I think solemnly. “What kind of ridiculous name is that?”

“I was named after my grandfather actually,” Doctor Polo says out loud.

I shake my head with disbelief. “Did you just—”

“Read your mind? Yes. It seems Doctor Everett didn’t inform you that I’m Gifted like you,”

Doctor Polo shows me to the examination bed while Keith takes a seat at his desk to observe from afar. Once I settle in, Doctor Polo then pulls up a stool and sits just before me.

“So what are you? Some kinda telepath?” I ask.

“Yes, but more specifically I’m a Mnemokinetic. It’s a rare subcategory of telepathy which not only allows me to read minds, but alter memories through mnemokinesis.”

The description of his gift leaves me with more questions than answers. I know telepaths, I’ve met a few in the past. They tend to be egotistical maniacs with superiority complexes because they know everything. But this is the first time hearing anything about mnemokinesis.

“I know it sounds a bit sketchy but it’s one hundred percent legitimate,” says Doctor Polo. “I’ve helped many patients suffering with PTSD and I’m confident I can help you move on just like them.”

“So how does this all work?” I ask.

“My practice is a lot like hypnotherapy,” he replies. “I’ll be examining the memories and then with your approval, replace them with better ones.”

I look to Keith quizzically who provides only a silent shrug of equal perplexity.

“I understand you’re plagued by a recurring nightmare because of the medication you’re taking?”

“Yeah, Serodyx.”

“What’s the nightmare of?” he asks while stroking his chin.

“It’s about the Red August bombing,” I reply. “I relive the moment just before the entire station is engulfed in flames.”

He types my response into his medical tablet, then encourages me to speak more about the nightmare. Like an open book caught in the breeze, I tell all. I explain my nightmare in great detail. Then move on to my triggers and finally my troubles with anxiety. Doctor Polo notates all of this. When I finish he clears his throat.

“Thank you, Ayden,” he says. “I know talking about this kind of stuff can be difficult. But you did a great job explaining.”

“So what now?” I ask.

“With your consent I can begin the memory alteration process. This will effectively rewrite the memories and experiences you encountered, allowing you to recover from your post traumatic stress.”

“Alright…” I say.

Doctor Polo instructs me to lie face up on the bed. He slides over to the end where my head is and rolls up the cuffs of his sleeves. He then sanitizes his hands with a dispenser near the bed.

“I’m going to touch the sides of your head for a stronger neural link.”

He places his index and middle finger on my temples. We lock eyes, and it instantly becomes weird.

“Don’t be nervous. It’ll be over before you know it,” Doctor Polo assures me. “Let me demonstrate.”

Without much warning, a cold chill runs through my head starting at my temples. My eyelids become heavy and in less than a second. I’m in a lucid state.

“Can you hear me?” asks Doctor Polo. His voice is distant yet somehow also prominent.

“Yes…” I murmur half-consciously.

“Good. I’m going to use a few trigger words to activate the hippocampus. I’ll start off slow but if you begin to feel uncomfortable or overwhelmed, say stop. Okay?”

“Okay…” I reply.

“Ball…” he says. I suddenly feel as if I’m free falling. The rush is brief and when it ends, my body jolts. From that jolt a memory comes to fruition.

I’m a child again, peering down at my shoes on a warm, sunny day. In my hand is a small red ball. It’s the ball I would play with at the EvGeni garden. It was my favorite ball. It was old, and part of the rubber peeled away but it had the best bounce of them all.

“A red ball,” says Doctor Polo. “I’m sensing a lot of happiness stemming from this memory but also… anger and regret?”

He’s correct. Within moments two other kids approach me. Bigger kids at least two or three years older than me. I remember them to be Gary Gallagher and Dallas McCoy. My former bullies.

“Oh, it’s ol’ one arm playing with his ball again,” says Gary in the most obnoxious way.

“Why don’t you stop being a ball hog and the big kids play with it for once?” says Dallas snobbishly. I refuse, but they didn’t care. Gary, being the Cryokinetic he is, creates hoarfrost on the palms of his hands and chokes me. I remember the sharp feeling of cold followed by numbness. Dallas screeches directly into my ear and I drop the ball to cover my ears. Gary then shoves me to the ground to get the ball before it rolls far away.

“Thanks for your cooperation, one arm.” Gary laughs. Dallas screeches again, channeling another sonic blast directly into my ear. I cry, but it only makes the situation worse.

“Aww… you made him cry, Gary!” Dallas says mockingly, pretending to wipe fake tears with his hands.

“Oh, shut up, kid. I barely touched you!” snarls Gary. I continue to sob, but this only infuriated him further.

“Why don’t you just cry to your dead mom!” he shouts.

Suddenly and another new emotion possesses me. Anger. I wipe the tears from my cheeks, rise to my feet and then cut a glare that would make Medusa envious.

“Oh, did I make you mad?” Gary ridicules.

I focus on the ball tucked underneath his arm and rip it from him with a telekinetic pull. I launch the ball directly into his smug grin. I catch a brief glimpse of his shocked expression just before the red rubber stretches across his face. Gary buckles over, grasping his face and wailing in pain. Dallas glances over to his buddy but receives a blow to the lower jaw, knocking him to his hands in knees.

“They deserved that,” says Doctor Polo. “I’m going to change a minor detail of this memory to show you how my power works.”

The memory rewinds back to the beginning. However this time the ball is a bright shade of blue. It’s difficult to describe. I feel as if the ball should’ve been red, but the memory is so clear I believe it to be blue. The rest of the memory plays out the same.

“Memories are easily influenced and what I do is simply convince your mind you forgotten the memory or replace it with another,” says Doctor Polo. He reverts the memory back.

“I’m going to tap into more sensitive memories now. Are you ready?”

“Yeah…” I reply.

“Red August bombing...”

A memory forms. I’m underground at the platform where the bombing took place. I glance around and notice the gray apparitions appearing from a dense fog. A loud explosion erupts from afar, shaking the ground beneath me. A fireball engulfs the platform but is snuffed out by an unseen force before it can reach me. The apparitions with their faceless voids disappear too, replaced by lively bystanders.

“Mother...” he says.

I recall many childhood memories of my mom. There’s a lot that I’ve forgotten over the years like our Saturday morning cartoon binge, curling up beside her in bed while she reads me a bedtime story. But these good memories aren’t what Doctor Polo is looking for. He finds the memory of her burned body lying dead on the platform ground. The repressed memory is but a half second long, but enough to haunt me years later. He makes the memory vanish like the rest.

“Arm…” he says finally.

The morbid glimpses of my mutilated arm come forth then vanish in an instant. One by one, he delves into repressed memories and after a few more keywords, I can no longer remember the events of that day following the bombing. Doctor Polo counts down.

“Three… two… one…”

He pulls his fingers away from my temples. I wake from my lucid daze feeling particularly hollow and weightless. I sit up from the bed, glancing around the room waiting for my eyes to readjust to the light.

“Ayden, can you tell me what happened to you the day of the bombing?” Doctor Polo asks.

I look to him and try to reflect on the day but I recall nothing.

“I don’t remember anything… I feel sad, but I can’t remember what happened...” I reply.

“That’s good, Ayden,” Doctor Polo says happily. “You’re feelings of grief will forever remain but the cause of your anxiety are completely cut from your memory. You won’t be having recurring nightmares anymore.”

I smile delightfully, as does Keith.

“That’s amazing. Thank you, Doctor,” I say. “I only wish I knew about your practice sooner!”

“Hah, well it took a long time for the FDA to approve my practice,” he chuckles. “I must warn you however. Even though your memories are gone, you’re highly susceptible relapse. I advise to not watch any violent movies or TV shows for at least a week or so.”

I nod my head. It’s a small sacrifice for peace of mind, but it’s going to feel a hell of a lot better kicking my Serodyx dependency.

“Sorry to say this but you may be seeing Ayden a lot less now,” says Doctor Polo to Kieth.

“Oh, it is no problem. The whole goal of healing is to heal and you did what no one else could do. I thank you,” Keith replies.

With my memories of the past gone, I silently reflect on the possibility of regaining the ones I’ve lost since hitting my head. Doctor Polo never explicitly said his powers couldn’t be used for recollection. Maybe he can take a look inside my head and see something that I can’t.

“Hey. Doctor Polo?”

“Yes?” He replies, turning to me.

“Could you maybe help me with something else?”

“Oh?”

“There was another bombing at FNBC a few days ago. If you haven’t noticed already, I was present when the building exploded… but I can't shake this feeling that I know something about the individual responsible. There was this insignia they used when they hijacked the news broadcast. It seemed oddly familiar to me.”

Doctor Polo glances to me once and knows what I’m about to ask next.

“Absolutely not!” he exclaims. “I helped you forget the worst day of your life and now you want me to help you remember another one?”

“So you can help people remember!”

“Yes! But I won’t help you! You’ll relapse and undo everything!”

“Please, Doctor Polo,” I beg. “Someone very close to me was severely hurt in that explosion. I need to know if there was something I saw that day that will help identify those responsible!”

“I’m sorry you had to experience yet another bombing... but it’s too risky.”

“Ayden, I know you want to help Petyr more than anything but think of the consequences,” interjects Keith. “What if he accidentally triggers an episode? Is it really worth putting us all at risk over a hunch?”

I look to Keith passionately. He knows I’d do anything for Petyr. However, I realize I’m being irrational. So I cast my desire aside, at least for now.

“No…” I quietly reply. Then the room becomes painfully silent. Before it becomes anymore unbearable, Doctor Polo breaks the silence with a single clap of his hands.

“I think that's all I can do for now. Ayden, I wish you the best of luck—”

A sudden, gentle quaking of the room stops him. The photos that hung around Keith’s office rattle against the wall. After a second, the shaking stops. The three of us look to one another. It’s clear we all felt it.

“Earthquake?” asks Keith. In that moment, another quake shakes the office. Followed by a second, a third, and then a fourth.